“The private secretaries have the very best education, and their work calls for the highest degree of intelligence, care, and sensitivity. You must realize, Miss Hope, that this is a serious business. We are at war, and that doesn’t leave much time for beaux and the like. The private secretaries don’t have time for mooning schoolgirls. We expect all staff to act with the dignity accorded to Number Ten. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Mrs. Tinsley.” Me? Moon over the private secretaries? Oh, just drop a bomb on me now and get it over with.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Tinsley said, looking up at the black hands of the clock. “You’ve put in a full day’s work. You may go.”
At that, a black-and-white cat jumped onto Mrs. Tinsley’s desk. “Ohhh!” she exclaimed, trying to shoo him with her hands. “Dreadful creature!”
Maggie picked him up and gently deposited him on the floor.
Mrs. Tinsley sniffed. “That is Nelson, one of the Churchills’ cats. Named after Lord Nelson, of course. You’ll find their animals are allowed to roam about quite … freely.”
A sprightly young man burst into the room, Anthony Eden hat in hand, trench coat over his arm. David Greene—who’d telephoned Maggie about the job—was short and slight, with sandy hair and bright eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. There was an impish look to him, as though he could play the role of Puck at a moment’s notice.
John Sterling followed, a few paces behind, head down. He was taller than David, with serious eyes and a fiercely angular face. He looked as though he’d cut his thick, curly brown hair himself, without a mirror. Lines between his brows hinted at worries beyond his years.
“Good evening, ladies,” David said, performing a courtly bow. “And how are you, Mrs. Tinsley?”
“Why, Mr. Greene, Mr. Sterling,” she said, her hands toying with her creamy pearls, “is there anything you need?”
John’s face was drawn. “Did you hear about the bombing?”
“What? No,” Mrs. Tinsley said, startled. “What bombing? Germans? The Luftwaffe?”
John shook his head. “Euston station. IRA, most likely.”
Momentarily subdued, David stated, “Five dead, more than fifty wounded.”
“That’s horrible,” Maggie said, blood draining from her face. Those poor people, just going about their business, she thought. One minute getting on or off a train, the next … Isn’t it bad enough anticipating air attacks from the Nazis, without the IRA mixing it up as well? Not to mention that young girl who was stabbed.
“Control yourself, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley snapped. “You’ll most likely witness much worse by the time this war is over. By the way, these young men are Mr. David Greene and Mr. John Sterling, two of Mr. Churchill’s private secretaries.”
Of course they are. Maggie had known them both for more than a year, introduced by Paige and Chuck. David was one of her closest friends. John was … well, John was an enigma. Serious, patronizing, and generally infuriating was how Maggie would characterize him.
“So, how was your first day, Magster?” David asked, leaning against Maggie’s desk as she straightened up.
“Fine, Mr. Greene,” she said in measured tones, catching his eye and trying to give him the hint to keep things formal, at least in the office. She rose to get her coat and hat from the hook near the door. “Thank you.”
“Did you know, Mrs. Tinsley,” David continued, “not only does Miss Hope hail from the good old U.S. of A.—as is apparent from her atrocious accent—but in fact she was a cowgirl on a ranch in Texas.”
There was a sharp intake of air from Mrs. Tinsley.
“I assure you, Mrs. Tinsley,” Maggie said, with all the dignity she could muster, “I’m a citizen of the United Kingdom. I was born here in London; my father and mother were both British citizens. However, I was raised near Boston.”
“I wasn’t aware Boston had ranches,” Mrs. Tinsley said, knitting her brows.
“Certainly not.” Maggie glared at David, who affected an innocent pose. “Mr. Greene thinks he’s very clever.”
“It’s all right, Magster,” David said. “The Boss is half American, after all, on his mother’s side. He even claims some Iroquois Indian blood. So you’ll fit right in.”
Mrs. Tinsley pursed her lips and folded her hands. It didn’t bode well. “Miss Hope, you may be excused. I still have work to do—there’s a war on, you know. Good night, Mr. Greene, Mr. Sterling.”
And the three left.
“You mean I’m not very clever? Maggie, you cut me to the quick,” David said as they made their way from No. 10 to the path flanking St. James’s Park in the mild May air. The rain had stopped. Slanting lemony sunlight pierced the clouds, although a few birds—sparrows, crows, ravens—chirped warnings of more rain to come. “So, really—how did your first day go?”